


All Work and No Play Makes Azazel a Dull Boy

by starhawk2005



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Het, Rape/Non-con Elements, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-09
Updated: 2012-08-09
Packaged: 2017-11-11 19:23:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starhawk2005/pseuds/starhawk2005
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What the YED’s doing when he’s not making more psychic!kids or visiting existing ones in dreams. Hey, even Demons have to have hobbies, right? Right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Work and No Play Makes Azazel a Dull Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t think it’s a good idea to own a YED. The cost of the asbestos alone….  
> Author’s Notes: Meh, this was SUPPOSED to be just a sexy smut!fic (because Fred Lehne is freakin' HAWT in an odd way), and instead it turned into this rape-and-gore!fest. Demons, just can’t trust them to let you write good clean pr0n where everyone lives and still retains all their original body parts at the end. *sighs*
> 
> Also, I find it a little frightening how easily I write evilness like this….hopefully this doesn’t say too much about me. I think I’ll blame the YED. Yes, that’s right, it’s all YOUR fault, you sexy evil bastard.

He’s bored. Life isn’t all about making half-demon psychic kids and dodging hunters like the Winchesters. Or it shouldn’t be. He’s been out of Hell for a long time, but there’s always the slim possibility he’ll have to go back (if he’s lucky and the Colt doesn’t shoot him dead, _really_ dead, first), and he’d prefer to have had a little fun along the way.

He’s still riding the janitor’s body, the same one he was riding when that fool John Winchester summoned him. It’s not a particularly athletic body (not that it matters, he can do any heavy lifting with ease, thank you, telekinesis) nor a particularly handsome one, but the guy put up a noisy fight for many months after the Demon first took his body over, and it still amuses him to hear the pathetic, exhausted human occasionally screaming and protesting soundlessly inside their shared skull. So he’s staying put.

But he’s _bored_. Time to make some mischief.

He’s bold enough to saunter right into the hunter bar, careful not to let a flicker of yellow invade his now-blue eyes. There’s a woman behind the bar, Ellen Harvelle, and though he looks around, there’s no sign of the little blond thing that’s her daughter Jo, but he decides it doesn’t matter. Taking either of them would be too risky. They probably know too much about _him_ in particular, and that’s a little too close for comfort, even for an ancient Demon like him. He’s gotten too close to the end-game to risk it all now. The standard garden-variety hunter suits him much better right now.

As prey.

Still, he swaggers up to the bar and rasps out a request for whiskey. He winks at Ellen as he tosses his money on the bar. “Keep the change, honey.” The Winchester boys, if they were here, might recognize his mannerisms, but they aren’t.

Ah, Sammy, the Demon reflects as he downs the liquor in one searing gulp. Not long now. The endgame is drawing nigh, indeed. Pensively, the Demon orders a second shot.

He scans the room, looking for likely prey. There’s a handful of men sitting alone, but that’s not what he’s in the mood for tonight. Only one single female hunter, but she’s blonde. Perfect. He’s always had a thing for messing up blondes.

“This seat taken?” he asks her. She glances up at him, guarded. He knows exactly what she sees – an older guy, grey-haired and blue-eyed, with enough lines on his face to write a novel on. In other words, she’s not likely to see him as a threat. Just an annoyance, at worst.

“I’m busy,” she says, and indeed there’s a journal full of stilted writing open in front of her, and several newspaper clippings.

For a moment, he reconsiders. It might be less work to drive back a ways to the nearest big town and get himself some paid companionship instead – which he won’t have to pay for, after all, if he shoves her against the ceiling and turns her into cold cuts after the main event – but he’s stubborn, and this’ll make for a far more satisfying chase.

“Me too,” he replies, “I need some information. There’s a demon out there, a bad one, and I’m going around gathering intell, trying to get on its trail.” He slides into the chair opposite her, and pulls out a torn and stained newspaper clipping, slapping it down in front of her.

She’s cautious at first. She didn’t see him Q and A’ing with the other bar patrons, but then again, she’s been in her own little world over here, researching her own little problems. She picks up the newspaper clipping, and the Demon has to hide a grin. It’s a story on one of his own kills, a preview of what’s going to happen to her tonight…except she doesn’t know it yet. It’s enough to make him horny.

She goes a little pale, he thinks. It’s hard to tell in this dim place. “This is one nasty demon,” she says, handing the clip back.

“Sure is,” he agrees. She has _no_ idea. “That’s why I want to catch the thing and send it back to Hell. Heard of any weird activity going on in the region?”

And so it begins. The process of seduction, stalking, in the guise of getting research. Of working together against the Dark. Ironic.

He knows he’s _in_ when she tells him her name is Jess (ah, it gives him a pleasurable flashback to another blonde Jessica, in another place, bleeding and dying on another room’s ceiling). He gives her some fakery in return, hiding another leering grin when he tells her his name is ‘Dean’. Ah, the perversity of it all. He’d probably even dare to use the name ‘Winchester’, if the boys weren’t so well-known around here.

A few more rounds, which he generously (of course) pays for, and she accepts his invitation back to his motel room. That’s one weakness these hunters have, that they’re entirely too lonely and easy to pick off through the promise of sex and warmth, especially if they decide you’re one of them, one of the loosely-woven clique. And when he’s killed them in the past, as long as he’s been careful about it, sometimes the other hunters don’t even hear about it for months, if at all. Hunters die or vanish every day, it’s the nature of the work, and very few of the remaining hunters question it. The thought that something might be picking them off systematically, one by one, doesn’t even occur to them, or this wouldn’t be so easy. Lucky for him.

Once the door to the motel room closes, the fun begins. He plays pretend a little longer, grabbing double handfuls of the front of her jacket and pulling her close, kissing her. Her hands slide up his back and through his hair, and it’s almost too bad that causing her fear and torment is going to be far more arousing than _this_.

He releases her and steps slowly back, then grins widely, cruelly, and lets his eyes change, swirling into sickly yellow. Jess stares in shock for all of two seconds, then goes for the knife on her belt. He’s tempted to let her stab him, as this janitor-body he’s been riding won’t be affected in the slightest. On the other hand, he rather likes this jacket. Before she’s barely even begun to defend herself, she finds herself face-first against the wall, pinned and helpless.

The Demon strides slowly over, leering. He hovers over her, lips to her ear. “Sorry, sweet thing,” he growls. “As much as I’d love to tussle with you, this’ll have to be just a brief stop. For…refreshment.”

He sinks sharp white teeth into the side of her neck, tastes the iron in her blood. Hot and sweet. He could use his mental powers to cut and rip the clothes off her, but sometimes the old-fashioned way is best. Or so he tells her as he reaches around her and yanks her jeans open and down with the janitor’s work-roughened hands.

She’s trying to scream, so he locks her jaw shut with another twitch of his mind. He laughs, low and mocking, right into her ear as he unzips himself. _Son of a bitch!_ she’s yelling, he can read it in her eyes.

“Call me Azazel, sweetheart,” he purrs. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He chuckles and shoves himself inside her, not caring if he tears her in the process. It’s going to be the least of her worries soon.

He releases his mental hold on her, slightly, just to feel her useless struggles. He twists a hand in her hair and yanks her head back, sinking his teeth into another spot on her throat, and shoves brutally in and out of her.

The Demon’s not a man, even if he’s fucking her like one. He can keep this going for _hours_ , if he’s so inclined, and he must admit that he’s tempted. It always adds a little something, when they _break_. When the blood drips slowly down their bodies and gets all over him, soaking into his clothes. But he wasn’t kidding when he told her this was a brief stop.

His human body orgasms, though it’s no big deal. He doesn’t see what the fuss is all about, really. He gets a much greater _rush_ from other things. Most notably what he’s about to do.

He pulls out of her and backs away, cleaning himself on a torn-off scrap of her shirt. She’s still alive, bloody and dazed. The tang of her fear in the air is like sweet perfume to the Demon.

Time for the coup de grace. His mind clamps down on her, tightly, holding her silent and still while he’s cutting her to pieces. It’s slow and agonizing for her. And a drugging thrill for him.

When she finally dies of shock and pain and lost blood, he shudders and sways drunkenly on his feet. Now _that_ is a climax.

He’s tempted to flame the entire motel, raze it to the ground, but he changes his mind at the last second. A targeted flame is better practice, after all. Even Demons can get a bit rusty, and he hasn’t flamed any nurseries in awhile. Instead, he sets the corpse and the wall and floor immediately around it aflame, then uses his other powers to keep the fire concentrated, until there’s only charred wall and floor and a pillar of ash that still looks vaguely human.

Pleased with himself, he kills the flames. It’ll be enough fun just watching the speculation on ‘spontaneous human combustion’ start up again. By Satan, humans are stupid.

Satisfied, he locks the motel room behind him and closes his eyes, concentrating. Preparing. It’s been a long journey, a long road, but it’s soon going to come to an end. Soon Sammy and all the other psychic kids are going to be competing in the Demon-sponsored version of the Miss America Pageant, and he’s going to have the pleasure of claiming this world for himself, and the rest of his demon-kin.

Now that’s the climax to end _all_ climaxes.

 


End file.
